


by loving you i’m losing me every night

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Drinking, Dysfunctional Relationships, Exes, F/M, Modern AU, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, let's get it out of system, sex in public or somewhere other than a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: He leans back down to kiss her again, softer this time, just a chaste peck at first, taking her bottom lip in between his next, but then she stops him with a firm squeeze of her fingers around his wrist.“No,” she demands, even if her voice shakes, slowly guiding his hand down her neck. Her blue eyes are desperate on his, a midnight blue, and he knows she needs this. She doesn’t want soft and sweet, doesn’t like the intimacy of it, not with him at least, even if that is what he craves desperately. He just wants to touch her, be close to her. Loving her is a lot like worship.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 42
Kudos: 133
Collections: Chopped: After The Kitchens Close





	by loving you i’m losing me every night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twilightstargazer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/gifts).



> theme: modern au  
> tropes: exes, let's get it out of our systems, sex in public/somewhere other than a bed, choking  
> song: if you're gonna lie - fletcher and yes i straightwashed it and what about it?  
> my labor: free

“Dude, you’re totally ruining the mood with all your moping,” Gabriel tells him over the loud music, kicking his shin to get his attention.

Bellamy rolls his eyes from where he’s slouched down on the couch, not even bothering to look up from where he’s thumbing through his Instagram feed mindlessly. It’s easy for Gabriel to enjoy being alive when his girlfriend is draped over his lap, it’s not so simple for others. He takes the blunt Monty offers him over the table though, taking another few drags before handing it over Jasper. 

He should have them memorized by now. The illegal shot of her in a oversized sweater and her neighbour’s golden retriever puppy cuddling into her chest, the light catching her bright, sparkly eyes. The one of her curled up like a cat, perched on top of her window seat with a book and her hair up in a slipshod bun, exposing her collarbone that seems to have come straight from his dreams. The one of her with a cocktail in that red bikini by the pool, looking absolutely fucking sinful. And, honestly, he has. He’s just the world’s worst masochist. 

“Seriously, it’s getting pathetic,” Josie, ever the helpful and caring friend, snarks, the white of her eyes showing as she flicks them up to the ceiling. There’s a drink in her hand she hasn’t sipped from all night, complaining about this party not having drinks with less calories. “And you wonder why no one can put up with you for longer than a month.”

He lets out a dry, mirthless snort in response. Honestly, he knows he’s being pathetic. He knows he’s the most tragic piece of shit alive when he is somehow both simultaneously terrible at being alone and has the world’s worst luck with dating. Josie just hates him though, so she should definitely shut the fuck up. “It would probably hurt more if it came from someone that isn’t a certifiable subhuman Barbie with not even the slightest clue of what a moral is.”

If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t go in so hard, but Josie can handle it. She doesn’t really have feelings. She sends him a look that could cut glass in response while their friends collectively snicker and whoop conspiratorially. Gabriel doesn’t even bother defending his girlfriend even though she obviously wants him to and honestly, Bellamy thinks it’s because he agrees. He just doesn’t care. 

“Don’t worry, I think the depression beard is sexy,” Jasper muses with a faux-betrothed expression, nudging him with his elbow. Bellamy swats him away, although he does crack half a smile.

“Must be real comforting,” Monty adds dryly, causing the rest of the group to burst into another fit of delirious laughter. The sense of humour in their group tends to get embarrassingly lousy once they’re a joint and a half in. 

Bellamy doesn’t really care either way, just glad the attention is off him again so he can resume his earlier task of pining after someone who dumped him not even a month ago and wasting away his life online. 

That’s his thing nowadays. He got his heart broken so now he goes to lame party after lame party and gets shitfaced to the point his liver is probably actively contemplating apoptosis. Or he hooks up, chasing meaningless human connections that he can never get to go further than making-out. Or he picks a fight with a random frat boy he knows he can easily take to try and materialize the pain swallowing up from the inside out. Anything, really, to get his mind off her, or to pretend he doesn’t show up to these things in the hope of running into her. Like maybe somehow she’ll have changed her mind this time.

His sister would probably call him a hopeless loser for it, but they’re not speaking either so she can’t really tell him anything. And Bellamy’s always been a pro at self-reflection, so it’s not like he isn’t fully aware he’s a hopeless loser. He just doesn’t give a shit. 

He stopped doing that, too. Giving a shit.

“Griffin!” Monty hollers not even a few minutes later, red eyes glazed over as he waves his hands over his head wildly. Bellamy freezes, his palms turning sweaty for no real reason. He _wanted_ to see her, craved it even, but yet he wasn’t really prepared in the slightest to come face to face with her.

He can feel her eyes on him as she comes up to the sitting area his group of friends are sprawled across, but he refuses to look up. Josie pulls her towards her, claiming as always, so she’s leaning back against the armrest as they speak in hushed tones about what some other girl is wearing. It pisses him off. It’s not Clarke. She doesn’t even care what other people wear, she’s just trying to please Josie. 

Bellamy just stuffs his phone in his pocket, sniffing loudly as he shakes his head in hopes of clearing his mind. Then he leans over to grab his beer bottle from the table, taking a long pull from it. The joint has circled back his way, Jasper knocking his knee into his to draw attention to the bud he’s holding out for him, and he takes another hit, closing his eyes as he holds it in until his lungs burn painfully. 

“You don’t smoke,” Clarke tells him matter-of-factly, and when he blinks his eyes open slowly she’s staring at him with a concerned crease in her forehead. Josie has moved onto making out with her boyfriend, easily bored, and he tells himself it’s the only reason she’s even speaking to him.

“Maybe now I do,” he snaps, reveling in the way her face falls. Bellamy can still feel her eyes on him even as he leans over with his elbows on his knees to hand Monty the joint next, so he just downs the rest of his beer, hoping it’ll keep him from doing stupid. The proximity of her is enough to make his head spin, and he can’t keep doing this. 

“Seriously, Bellamy,” Clarke tries again, scraping her throat softly. She sounds upset for some reason and his chest fucking _aches_. She decided they don’t get to do that anymore so what the hell is she doing pretending she’s worried? “Maybe you should slow down.”

His head snaps to look at her so quickly, his neck stabs with pain in protest. His voice sharp and venomous, he spits, “ _S_ _eriously_ , stop pretending you even give a shit.”

The tension in the air grows so thick it seems to suspend time, and most of his friends go mute and stop whatever they’re doing to glance over at the two of them warily. (He gets it. Even _before_ , they were infamous for getting into the worst fights. Only _before_ , they were predictable and would always make-up, and now it just always turns into something ugly.) And even though music must still be pumping through the speakers loudly like it was thirty seconds ago, the distant ringing in his head is the only thing he really hears. Only she can make him so angry, sound ceases to exist. 

Clarke’s face morphs into a blank expression, and he can tell she’s pissed although she tries to keep her tone calm and collected, gritting through her teeth, “Can I speak to you outside?”

“No,” he scowls, trying to convince himself that this time he won’t give in. 

She gives him a _look_ , and he’s reminded again how pathetic he truly is. How he’d do anything for this girl who doesn’t even want him. 

Swallowing tightly, he reaches for Jasper’s beer as he begrudgingly pushes himself into his feet. He always caves. She knows he does. “Fine.”

He follows her outside to the patio of whatever rich sorority girl’s vacation home they’re currently trashing. Bellamy just hears the magic words ‘ _free booze_ ’ these days and asks one of his friends for a ride. 

He’s downed the beer by the time they reach the glass sliding doors, discarding the bottle on the cabinet lithered with fake plastic sea shells off to the side. His tolerance has gotten so high these past few months he’s barely feeling any effects of the steady supply of drinks and drugs he’s been entertaining for the past hour.

The door is barely closed before he’s tugging on the front of his curls in frustration, hating the roughness of his own voice as he speaks. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Clarke.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says simply and almost deadpan, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the balustrade. That’s her body language nowadays whenever she’s around him, closed off.

She looks so pretty in the moonlight it steals his breath away. Which, _fuck,_ he knows that’s cheesy as shit but it’s true. It’s true, and he hates it. He hates how silky and smooth her skin looks in the pale light. He loathes her shiny blonde hair falling down her shoulders in waves, somehow longer than the last time he saw her. He despises the short, tight little blue sundress she’s wearing, tits and legs and surely her ass on display for everyone to ogle at. It’s his favorite color on her, brings out the color in her eyes. Clarke doesn’t even usually like wearing dresses, once called them impractical and a societal menace. He _especially_ fucking hates how good she looks, how unaffected and put together and absolutely perfect in comparison to him.

His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, and he’s shaking his head, trying to clear it from her. “ _You_ broke up with _me_ , remember? You can’t keep pretending you care about me—”

She straightens a little, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not pretending. Of course I care about you—”

“Of course,” he echoes, skeptical, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he leans back against the wall. Bellamy is fucking seething, but he’s grasping onto it with the tips of his fingers, holding on for dear life. He can never stay mad at her for long and he hates himself for it.

“I do!” She protests, seems to believe it too, kicking off the balustrade as she takes a step closer to him. One of her hands smoothes up her bicep before running it through her hair, flipping it over until her fingers gets caught on a knot. 

He lets out a mirthless laugh, eyes blazing with heat as he gruffs, “Let’s not pretend you’re not just here because none of them know how to make you come like I do.”

He feels like he gets to blame his crassness on the alcohol, even if they both know it’s not on the five beers he’s had. They’re always honest with each other, even when it’s too much, even when they don’t want to hear it. And he likes to pretend that's all this ever was. Physical comfort. Like the punishing sting of _that_ implication.

“That’s not why I’m here, Bellamy,” she seethes, her cheeks turning a pretty pink from frustration. She acts composed, but he can see the tremble in her hand as she lodges it back in the crease of her opposite elbow. “I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself.”

He huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose as a slow grim smile forms on his lips. “Funny.” 

Her nails bite into her skin, and there’s a clench in her jaw, a strain in her voice as she retorts, “Can you stop being an ass for one second and just talk to me?”

She’s used to getting her way, and that’s partly his fault. He’s never told her ‘no’ and meant it. At one point in time, he would have died for her. He probably still would now. He wants to, most of the time. And yeah, he’s aware that makes him sound like a fucking lunatic. He knows he’s not the first guy who’s gotten his heart broken, hell, not even the first person who’s gotten his heart broken by her, but Clarke — she was the first person he ever allowed himself to be vulnerable with; he ever allowed himself to need and rely on, who he trusted completely; the first person he allowed himself to _want_ after a life of putting himself last. She knows how hard that was for him, and she still left. 

“You want to talk? _Fine_ ,” Bellamy spits angrily, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He hesitates, just a second, before he goes with the truth, “‘You can’t really destroy something that’s already broken.”

“God, stop being so fucking dramatic!” She replies, her voice shaking with frustration as she throws up her hands. “We’d been dating for three weeks. You’ll get over it.”

Three weeks. And the year of friendship and the six months of pining before that. Then the _I need to find myself first_ , and the _I’m not ready to settle down_ because she got scared. She’s a coward. His nostrils flare, but he manages to keep a pretty even tone, “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

“It’s the truth,” Clarke arguments firmly, but most of the fight has left her and he knows she’s not so sure herself now. She has these tells, tells he knows all too well, used to tease her with. Like the way her mouth parts and her bottom lip starts trembling slightly if she’s doubting herself, which is happening right now.

He pushes himself off the wall, stepping into her space. She doesn’t back up, and it sends a sick thrill through his body. “Then why do you keep coming back?” Bellamy wonders, voice gruff as he tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. He leans closer, breath hot against the shell of her ear as he adds, “Why can’t you replace me?”

It’s not like she hasn’t tried. He’s seen the steady rotation of old hook-ups plastered across her Instagram stories, seen her flirt with plenty boys and girls at the parties he chases her to, even noticed her taking home more than a few. But she always comes back. Always manages to get him to finger her in a stall in a sleazy bar or to eat her out on the backseat of his car. To fuck her just the way she likes, ready at her disposal whenever she shows up at his apartment. Always his, so she can leave before first morning light. 

Always turns him into a pathetic, pining piece of shit, right back where he started. She’s _in_ him, everywhere he turns, like an addiction he can’t escape. 

“I can,” she breathes, meeting his gaze determinedly even as her chest rises and falls quick, and desperate. There’s a spark in her blue eyes that never fails to make him want to kiss her senseless. “I _will._ ”

“Have fun,” he scoffs darkly, giving her a once-over before he turns to walk away.

Her fingers wrap around his wrist before he can, thumb over his pulsepoint, and the raspiness of her voice goes straight to his dick. “Wait.”

Bellamy turns back, doesn’t bother to hide his disgust with the situation, with her, with himself. This isn’t healthy. He can’t keep doing this. It’s fucked up. “Why should I?”

She inhales sharply, raking his face, then swallows tightly as her eyes soften and she looks up at him through her lashes. “I wore this dress for you.”

His heart threatens to beat it’s way right out of his ribcage and suddenly his mouth feels like cotton.

“Clarke.” He tilts his head, drinking her in. Her wet lips slightly parted, the flush high on her cheeks and down her neck and across her collarbone, the enticing dip between the valley of her breasts. 

“Please,” she says, barely a whisper, fingers tightening around his wrist. She looks desperate in way she never lets anyone else see her, but any thought of leaving has already long left his mind. “Tell me you don’t want me back, and I’ll leave.”

His jaw tightens, wringing himself from her grip softly, their fingers brushing as he lets his hand drop back down by his side. “You’re sick, you know that right?”

“I know. That’s why we broke up,” she agrees, a little too eagerly if you’d ask him, already leaning closer. If he remembers it’s distinctly _not_ the reason why, but maybe it’s what she thinks, intrinsically has convinced herself of. And the fucked up part is he’ll be waiting until she heals, doesn’t think of herself as some unloveable monster that ruins everything in it’s wake anymore, even if it takes forever.

It’s why he allows her to come back whenever she likes, take whatever she wants. He’d rather have her and feel like shit afterwards than not have her at all and still feel like shit. There’s a variety in the level of shittiness, but after a while the pain is just kind of the same either way. All of it ends up like a numb, dull ache in the middle of his chest, reminding him of what he can’t have. 

“Just this once,” he says, stupidly, instead of arguing with her about technicalities. She’s close now, close enough he can feel her body heat radiate off her and his fingers itch to reach out and touch her.

“Just to get it out of our systems,” she agrees, breath harsh against his mouth as she leans up on her tiptoes. She smells like fresh linen and shitty wine-coolers. One inch, and their lips would be grazing. 

Bellamy always enjoys the suspension of time whenever they’re about to touch, about to give in. Enjoys the sweet torture, of having her so close but not having her. In the heat of the moment — when they’re just two souls wanting, needing, yearning — he can almost always convince himself they never broke up. That he still gets to touch her, kiss her, hold her whenever he wants. That she’s still his, and he’s still hers.

They always did like some pain with the pleasure.

“You said that last time.” He means it to be a challenge, but his breath stutters in his chest as she surges up the last inch to connect their lips in a bruising kiss, fingers winding into his curls.

Bellamy’s strong arms band around her waist, pulling her closer, practically squeezing her to him, and together they stumble back against the wall beside the glass door. They don’t have much time, anyone could come outside at any moment for a breath of fresh air or maybe a frat boy who lost a bet taking his chance at streaking down the garden, or one of their friends could start to wonder what’s taking them so long and then he would be sat down for another well-intended intervention sooner rather than later. Yet he always wants to take his time with her, just in case this really is the last time they do this. 

He allows her to lick inside his mouth for a second before he tries to slow them down regardless of how good they are at this, how soft and wet her mouth is underneath his, how badly he’s missed her sweet taste. Pulling back to rest his forehead against hers and catch their breath for a second, leaving her to chase his mouth. 

A pout starts to form on her lips as a frustrated sound leaves the back of her throat and his hand comes up to palm her heated face, thumb caressing her cheekbone gently. Bellamy drinks her in and he knows his gaze is closer to reverent than he wants it to be; the ever present furrow in between her brows, her long eyelashes fluttering quickly, the beauty mark right above her mouth, her red, kiss-bitten lips. He leans back down to kiss her again, softer this time, just a chaste peck at first, taking her bottom lip in between his next, but then she stops him with a firm squeeze of her fingers around his wrist.

“No,” she demands, even if her voice shakes, slowly guiding his hand down her neck. Her blue eyes are desperate on his, a midnight blue, and he knows she needs this. She doesn’t want soft and sweet, doesn’t like the intimacy of it, not with him at least, even if that is what he craves desperately. He just wants to touch her, be close to her. Loving her is a lot like worship.

Bellamy considers telling her no. He brushes her hair out of the way, down her back, following the lines of her neck with just a tip of his finger. He can see her pulse rattle quickly, watches her throat work as she swallows, watching him carefully. His thumb sweeps across the dip of her clavicle and then his palms flattens, curling around the nape of her neck. He tugs her even closer, blowing out a long breath close to her temple as she holds his gaze.

For a long minute, they don’t move. They don’t have time, but they stay still just like that, his hand on her neck and their alcohol-infused breaths mingling. If he was stronger, he wouldn’t give her this, but he’s not. His fingers flex along her throat, thumb tracing the line of her jaw before digging it in, tilting her mouth up to meet his. 

It’s not just a kiss, she consumes him and he consumes her right back, mouth plundering hers. It’s combination of their need and the uncontrollable desire they feel for each other, regardless of how much they like each other at the moment. It’s possessiveness too, but he knows that’s mostly him. He’s just a warm body to her, most of the time, one that knows her body better than she knows it herself. 

She moans into his mouth as his thumb brushes down her windpipe, just lightly teasing, and her knee comes up to brush against his groin, dick straining against his zipper almost painfully. 

Clarke’s small hand finds it’s way to the closure of his pants, flicking open the button to slip into his pants. He growls into her mouth, hand tightening around her neck almost automatically, making her gasp as she presses closer to him. 

His teeth dig into her bottom lip, hard enough to sting, but she doesn’t care, just hums appreciatively as she fisting his cock a few times. Her other hand disappears beneath her dress, probably moving aside her panties before she starts to guide him towards her entrance, an urgency to everything she does.

His free hand palms her ass as he flips them around, lifting her a little higher towards his pelvis, using his weight as leverage. His mouth moves to her jaw and then the long column of her neck as she lifts one of her knees, lining him up. Just as he nips her pulsepoint unforgivingly, hard enough to leave a mark that’ll have her thinking of him for days to come, he sinks into her. 

It earns him a high, breathy gasp and his eyes rolls into the back of his head as he bottoms out. Every time he convinces himself it can’t possibly have been as good as he mind romanticizes it into being. Every time it’s better than the last time. “You’re always so tight for me, so wet.”

Clarke just hums, a dazed look in her eyes as she tips her chin up to indicate she wants a kiss and he gives it to her gladly. They mostly just breathe into each other’s mouths as he starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back inside of her. Breathing until they turn into strained moans, his hips settling into a hard, relentless rhythm. 

His free hand comes up to palm her breast, squeezing almost meanly in a way he knows she likes and he wishes they had gone somewhere more secluded so he could get his mouth on her. Her back arches into him, fingers desperately clutching at his shoulders as he pounds inside of her, his pelvic bone pushing against her clit with each pass and he can feel his chest grow hot with sweat underneath his shirt. 

Bellamy squeezes the hand around her pale neck, and an airless gasp gets stuck in her throat while he does it, eyes fluttering closed as she takes her bottom lip between her teeth. He likes how big his hand looks on her delicate neck, how easily she hands herself over to him. Feeling a surge of affection, he leans back down to seal his mouth over hers, although with the way she’s gasping it soon turns into just their lips messily grazing over each other, half-heartedly nipping at each other whenever they get the chance. 

Her body starts to grow taut beneath him, and he slows down his thrusts in favor of getting to push in deeper. “Bellamy,” she murmurs, trying to roll her hips up in tandem with his, and the raspy sound almost pushes him over the edge. The sounds she’s making softy and pitchy and blissed out, tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes, face growing redder and redder. It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is. 

Tingles of heat begin to crawl up his neck as their foreheads press together, and he knows he’s close. Can feel her climbing and building alongside with him. He’s glad for the ear-deafening music inside, sure someone would’ve heard them by now by the way he’s pounding into her with long, controlled strokes, her body slamming back against the wall with each thrust. He tightens his hold on her neck, and her eyes roll back in ecstasy, only fueling him more.

He loves seeing her like this, handing over the control willingly, careless and free. He loves her, and he wishes that was enough. 

Bellamy cries out her name as he comes, and she follows immediately, cunt fluttering tightening around him almost painfully. He buries his face into her neck, fingers still wrapped around her but no longer squeezing, just gently holding. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, still joined, Bellamy still deep inside her as their breathing starts to come back to normal. 

Clarke drops her head and presses a kiss to his jaw, and he’s struck by the domesticity of the gesture. She usually never gets soft with him, doesn’t let herself. He pulls back, reaching down to adjust her panties back in place before tugging himself into his pants. He has half a mind not to pull up her dress and watch his cum drip down her thighs, reminding himself it actually happened. That the rest of the night, she’ll have to carry a piece of him with her, like he always carries a piece of her with him. 

There’s tear tracks down her red cheeks, and he kisses the tears away and she lets him. He thumbs even brush beneath her eyelids to get rid of the smudged mascara there before resting them on her cheeks. 

“The last time,” he echoes, and Clarke’s head slants to the side, her blue eyes softening in a way that’s absolutely heart-wrenching as she presses a kiss to his palm. 

“You know I can’t promise you that.”

His teeth grit together, and it actually pains him how little she cares. _I love you_ , she told him when she broke it off, _always. I still want to be your friend._ But he guesses that was just another fucking lie. Friends don’t torture each other like this. “I never learn, do I? Every time I’m fucking heartbroken after—”

“So am I!” She cuts him off, pressing her small hands to either side of his neck, desperate, for just a moment before she realizes what she’s doing and she falters back a step, a hand sliding into her hair. “God, so am I, Bellamy,” she repeats, weakly and he doesn’t understand.

He aches to close the distance between them again, but doesn’t. He never thought he would be a begger, but when it comes to her he finds out new, twisted things about himself every time. “Why can’t you just let me be with you?”

Silence wraps around them for a moment as they stare at each other, the only sound that of distanced, upbeat music and some college girl shrieking before there’s a loud chorus of whoops from behind the glass. 

“I think I could love you forever, you know that, right?” She says, so quiet, he barely hears her. There’s resignation all over her face, even if she tries to force the corners of her mouth up weakly. “But not when I’m like this. I know what you want.”

“No, you don’t,” he argues, frantic, doesn’t understand why she’s thinking _for_ him, deciding _for_ him. Doesn’t he get a say? His voice nearly breaks, “I just want you—”

“I know you want a big wedding with a bad DJ and a stupid slideshow with all our embarrassing childhood pictures, and a house with a wrap-around porch and a swing in the backyard. I know you want _children_ ,” she presses with a raise of her eyebrows, knowing she’s right. She knows him, and all this time he thought she didn’t care, or not enough at least, and it just turns out that this is her own fucked up way of protecting him. Her voice trembles, eyes raking his face intensely before they drop down to their feet and trail back up as she shakes her head. “I’m twenty-one, I — I can’t give you that.”

He opens his mouth to protest, to tell her he never asked her for any of that, that none of that matters if he doesn’t have her. He wants all of that _with_ her. He can wait. He can wait fucking forever if that’s what she wants. 

“Not right now, not when I can barely look at myself in a mirror,” she says quickly, before he gets a chance to even form a coherent thought. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get there, but if I do — I’ll come back to you, okay?” She urges, desperate, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. “I promise, I just — I can’t watch you waste away your life waiting for something that might never happen.” She sniffs, offering him a watery smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “So please don’t, okay? Please, just try — try and move on.”

He doesn’t understand how she can’t see that he’s willing to be there for her, in any way she lets him be. That he doesn’t _need_ her to make decisions for him, or to protect him, least of all from her. And his heart fucking aches at seeing her in so much pain, and frustration swells inside of his chest at her unwillingness to let him ease it, at her unwillingness to see how much it hurts _him_. Bellamy tugs on his hair, and he feels like he’s suffocating, his lungs burning. “You won’t let me!”

“This is the only way I can have you,” she reasons, her voice hoarse and mascara streaking her cheeks, and he guesses she’s not above begging either. “Please—”

“I love you,” he tries, even if he knows it’s useless, swiping at the wetness underneath his eyes.

Clarke’s lips twitch, corners turning up in half a smile as she steps closer to him, sliding a hand into his hair, right behind his ear. “I love you too,” she admits, pink lips trembling, and he knows she means it. “And maybe someday, I’ll deserve it.”

Another squeeze of his fingers around his shoulder and the ghost of her lips against his cheek and she’s gone, slipping back inside the party before she can hear his quiet, reverent response. “You already do.”

**Author's Note:**

> bellamy: melodramatic over missing the pu$$y of his life :(


End file.
